In Loving Memory

by Winona Kent

  Charlie looked at him, then checked her handbag.

  “Yes,” she said. She paused. “Did you know Giles Jessop was going to give it to me?”

  Fenwick said nothing, instead choosing to sip from his cup of tea.

  “Giles Jessop is a time traveller as well?” Charlie asked.

  “Let us call him a sympathetic friend. And let us also recall the knowledge I imparted to your companion, Mr. Deeley, upon another very similar occasion. The power of suggestion is your strongest ally. Your imagination was engaged. It was your own imagination which brought both of you back to this time. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

  “But we are here for a reason. Each journey we’ve undertaken has had consequences, which were brought about by our actions,” Charlie pressed.

  “Your interrogation of Mr. Oldbutter will, I fear, be in vain, Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Deeley replied. “His infuriating adherence to the Overarching Philosophy and his steadfast loyalty to the oath prevents him from confirming anything.”

  “I may, however, be persuaded to discuss,” Fenwick added, inscrutably. “And possibly, to suggest.”

  Charlie contemplated her own cup of tea.

  “Have you a suggestion, then, Mr. Oldbutter?”

  “I do, in fact. It would not be in anyone’s best interests if Jackie Lewis were to go out with Justin Duran this evening.”

  “Sorry,” Charlie said, “but that’s my dad. They have to meet. Or I won’t be born.”

  “The mere fact that you exist at this moment and are here, enjoying a hamburger with me and your esteemed companion, indicates to me that they did, at some point, meet,” Fenwick replied humorously. “I merely suggest that it should not be tonight. When are they married?”

  “1969.”

  “There you are then. Five years in which to discover one another. I suspect not even you know the circumstances of their first meeting.”

  “I’ve never actually asked.”

  “And your brother and sister?”

  “I don’t think they know either. It’s never really come up in conversations.”

  “What, then, if I were to tell you, that tonight is the only opportunity your mother will have to meet Tony Quinn?”

  “Who’s he?”

  Fenwick turned his quizzical gaze to Mr. Deeley. “A relation of yours, I believe.”

  “I have not heard of him.”

  “Perhaps, then, you simply haven’t had the opportunity to explore your family tree this far into the 20th century. He is a direct descendant of your son, Thaddeus Quinn. In the year we now occupy, he plays music. On the radio. He is what you might refer to as a pirate.”

  “Oh!” said Charlie. “On board a pirate radio ship. I know about those.”

  “Unfortunately,” Fenwick said, “he will die, quite tragically, aboard that same ship. Quite soon. But tonight he will be attending the premiere of A Hard Day’s Night. He will be late…and rushing to get inside.”

  “Why is it so important for my mum to meet him?” Charlie asked.

  She stopped, and looked at Mr. Deeley. “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Mr. Deeley replied, and they both looked at Fenwick.

  “It is true that a child will be born early next year,” Fenwick said. “And that child will grow up to be someone rather important.”

  “Who?” Charlie asked.

  “I am not at liberty to reveal that.”

  “And why us?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “You might say,” Mr. Deeley said, “by the means of your powers of suggestion. You might even make arrangements. Or you might procure a favour. You can say, but you merely wish not to. Another of your more infuriating habits.”

  “I might procure a favour from the two of you,” Fenwick deferred.

  “Out of everyone currently in London,” Charlie replied. “Why us?”

  “Out of everyone currently in London, you are the closest to Jackie Lewis…and you, Charlotte, out of everyone in London, have the most to lose if your mother fails to meet Tony Quinn this evening.”

  “What do I have to lose?” Charlie persisted. “This is about the birth of a child, my half-sister or brother. Not me.”

  “Perhaps I might show you a small story from tomorrow’s Daily Chronicle…”

  Fenwick withdrew a yellowed newspaper clipping from his trouser pocket, and handed it across the table to Charlie.

  It was very short story, about a traffic accident in Central London involving a Vespa and a lorry. The two passengers aboard the little motorcycle were killed instantly. The lorry driver was unhurt, but was being treated for shock. The accident victims were identified as Jacqueline Lewis, of Stanhope Gardens, South Kensington, and Justin Duran, of Earl’s Court, both aged 23.

  Stunned, Charlie showed the article to Mr. Deeley, who read it with great thought, and then handed it back to Fenwick.

  “And this will happen tonight?” he said.

  “This will happen,” Fenwick replied, “unless something else happens, which will prevent it.”

  “But this newspaper story is from tomorrow. It did happen,” Charlie countered.

  Fenwick remained silent as he returned the clipping to his trousers pocket.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Deeley mused, “that newspaper article has its origins in another reality.”

  “But I’m here,” Charlie objected. “So that accident couldn’t have happened…could it?”

  “Who is to say what reality you might return to?” Fenwick replied. “Perhaps you will be unable to return at all, if, in fact, you no longer exist. I believe this to be a paradox you ought not to risk. Consider the consequences. You might vanish.” He finished his cup of tea. “And then where would that leave your poor Mr. Deeley?”

  “I have encountered this situation previously,” Mr. Deeley said, “and given a choice, I should prefer not to have to deal with it again. I suggest we interfere, Mrs. Collins. Lest you suddenly cease to be, and cause me untold grief for another lifetime.”

  • • •

  “Let us hope the boutique is still open,” Mr. Deeley said, as they ran back through Soho, and down Carnaby Street, “and that your mother has not yet gone home.”

  His hope was in vain.

  The door to Marianne’s Memory was locked, a “Closed” sign hanging crookedly in its window.

  “No!” Charlie cried, hammering on the glass.

  There was movement from within, and moments later, Marianne appeared.

  “We’re closed!” she mouthed, through the window, pointing at the sign.

  “Please let us in!” Charlie shouted. “It’s terribly important! Please!”

  Marianne hesitated, then relented, unlocking the door and admitting them to the darkened shop.

  “You’re lucky I was just totting up the accounts in the back. What’s up?”

  “We are in urgent need of Justin Duran’s mobile number,” Mr. Deeley replied. “We must contact him.”

  Charlie gave him a dig in the ribs with her elbow.

  “Sorry,” she said, “my friend means his telephone number. He’s got a peculiar way of phrasing things.”

  “I don’t know his number,” Marianne said. “He’s only just moved here from Stoneford. He came for a job in the city.”

  “What about Giles?” Charlie asked.

  Marianne telephoned her boyfriend.

  “Right, ok. Thanks, love. We’ll give it a try.”

  She hung up the phone.

  “Giles only has his number at work. He hasn’t got a phone at his flat. He pops out and uses the call box at the end of the road.”

  “Is it too late to ring him at work?” Charlie said desperately.

  “I’ll try,” Marianne said, dialling the number. She waited. “No, no answer. It’s gone half past five.”

  “What about Jackie?” Mr. Deeley inquired. “Will she be at home by now? Can we ring her?”

  “I’m so sorry. We don’t have a phone either. We’ve ordered one, but the Post Office
takes ages to get round to installing them.” She looked at Charlie and Mr. Deeley. “What is it? Is it a matter of life and death?”

  “It is, actually,” Charlie said. “What time is she meeting Justin?”

  “Half past six.” Marianne looked at her watch. “You’ve got time to catch them. Take the tube from Piccadilly Circus to Gloucester Road. We’re in Stanhope Gardens. I’ll give you the address.”

  • • •

  As they raced through the back streets of Soho, down toward Piccadilly Circus, Mr. Deeley said: “Why did you nudge me, Mrs. Collins?”

  “No mobiles, Mr. Deeley. They didn’t show up properly till the 1990s. They’re still tethered by landlines here. Look at all the red call boxes.”

  They emerged at the bottom end of Regent Street and ran towards the nearest Underground entrance. Across the road, where the fountain was, they could see crowds beginning to gather, and workers erecting metal barricades, while a huge marquee over the entrance to the London Pavilion proclaimed the presence of The Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night.

  “The fountain has moved,” Mr. Deeley said, preventing Charlie from going down the stairs into the tube station.

  “What?”

  “The fountain topped with the Angel of Christian Charity. It is over there, in the centre of the road. I distinctly recall it being just over here in the time we have come from. Are we indeed inhabiting an alternate reality, Mrs. Collins?”

  “No,” Charlie said, “no…Mr. Deeley. I wish we were in an alternate reality, but they reconstructed this area in the late 1980s and moved the fountain. Everything’s as it should be. Come on, we haven’t got much time.”

  Beneath Piccadilly Circus lay the circular concourse of the Underground station.

  “Tickets,” Charlie said. “Money. What have you got?”

  Mr. Deeley checked his pockets. “Coins,” he said, offering them.

  Charlie pulled her change purse out of her bag. No notes. Only more coins.

  “Damn,” she said.

  She picked through the money in the palm of her hand.

  “Five pence,” she said. “Five new pence looks and weighs almost the same as an old sixpence. Excellent.”

  She took Mr. Deeley’s coins and added her own, located a machine and bought two tickets for Gloucester Road. The machine dropped several old pennies in change into the metal tray. Charlie collected them and grabbed Mr. Deeley’s hand. “This way to the Piccadilly Line,” she said, pulling him towards the escalators.

  • • •

  “There it is.”

  The flat Jackie and Marianne shared was on the top floor of a five-storey stuccoed 19th century terrace, painted white, with cast iron railings and Doric columns decorating its porches and cornices over its windows.

  “Another building that’s Grade II listed in our time, Mr. Deeley. Very posh indeed. It doesn’t look too shabby in 1964, either. I wonder how mum and Marianne can afford it. I don’t think the boutique brings in enough to pay the rent on this little lot.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Deeley, “Marianne’s father would rather his daughter not be domiciled in a dwelling of lesser value. Might there be money in the family?”

  “I think you’re right, Mr. Deeley.” Charlie rang the bell for Flat 5.

  They waited.

  “She can’t have left yet. It’s not even six.”

  A minute later, Jackie opened the big front door, slightly out of breath.

  “Oh,” she said. “I was expecting Justin.” She looked at Charlie, and then at Mr. Deeley. “How did you know this is where I lived?”

  “Marianne gave us your address,” Charlie said. “Can we come inside?”

  • • •

  The flat was tiny, on the very top floor of the building, and reached by way of a very long climb up five flights of narrow stairs.

  “I think it’s where the servants must have once lived,” Jackie said. “Marianne’s bedroom’s a bit larger than mine. And you can see where they’ve put in a little kitchen and an even littler loo. Now what’s this all about?”

  In the tiny sitting room, Charlie and Mr. Deeley sat down on a sofa that looked as if it had originally come from a French bordello.

  “You’re going to think we’re bonkers…” Charlie began.

  “…but we are travellers in time,” Mr. Deeley finished.

  Charlie looked at him. And then at Jackie.

  “Been smoking a bit of the weedy stuff, have you?” Jackie replied, amused. “Marianne and Giles are mad about it. It just puts me to sleep, I’m afraid.”

  “I do not smoke,” Mr. Deeley replied.

  “Anything,” Charlie added. “We really are time travellers, Jackie. We’re from 2014. In fact, I’m…” She paused again, and glanced at Mr. Deeley for help. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

  “You’re what?” Jackie said. “Trippy? Or just bonkers?”

  “We have come to warn you,” Mr. Deeley replied. “It would be a grave error if you were to meet Mr. Duran tonight and ride away on his motorbike.”

  “He hasn’t got a motorbike,” Jackie said.

  As she spoke, the bell from the front door downstairs sounded. Jackie went over to the sitting room window, which overlooked the main road and the leafy square that gave the road its name. Charlie and Mr. Deeley followed.

  Down below, they could see a young man with his hair cut and combed into fringe, long in the front and long in the back, pacing nervously on the pavement. There was a gunmetal-grey Vespa with burgundy seats parked on the road behind him. The young man gave up pacing, and instead perched on the padded seat of the little motorcycle.

  Charlie clung to Mr. Deeley’s arm. “It’s my dad,” she whispered. “He’s so young.”

  “He didn’t tell me about a motorbike,” Jackie said. “I’m not sure I want to ride pillion on that. It’s completely impractical.”

  She looked down at her skirt, which was blue, and very short and narrow, and clung to her hips and legs.

  “You must make an excuse,” Mr. Deeley urged.

  “Please,” Charlie pleaded.

  “Why?” Jackie asked.

  “There will be an accident,” Mr. Deeley said, simply. “And you will die.”

  Jackie stared at him. “How can you know that?” she whispered.

  “We’ve been sent to warn you,” Charlie said.

  “Perhaps if you were to consider us your guardian angels,” Mr. Deeley suggested gently, “it might be easier for you to understand. And accept.”

  Jackie looked out of the window again, then darted out of the flat and ran down the stairs. Charlie and Mr. Deeley watched as she rushed out of the front door and onto the pavement, and spent some time talking to Justin, in earnest.

  They watched as the expression on his face changed from curiosity, to disappointment, then to alarm and finally concern.

  They watched as he climbed aboard the Vespa and puttered away, and Jackie came back upstairs.

  “I’ve made a date with him for next Saturday,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “And to be on the safe side, we’re going by bus. He borrowed the Vespa from his mate at work.” She looked out of the window, thoughtfully. “He seems rather nice.”

  “Oh, he is!” Charlie assured her. “He won’t stay working in London though. After you marry him, you’ll move back to Stoneford, and he’ll be quite a successful estate agent. And then you’ll both retire to Portugal.”

  Jackie laughed. “Bloody hell,” she said. “Stoneford! I don’t think so. And Portugal! I’m terrible with foreign languages. Can’t we just retire to Brighton or Bognor and run a little bed and breakfast place for tourists? That’s more my style.”

  “You’ll see,” Charlie mused.

  “Any kids, while you’re predicting my future?”

  “Oh yes. Three.”

  “Four,” Mr. Deeley corrected.

  “Yes,” Charlie said quickly. “Four. I forgot.”

  “Well, now that you’ve managed to su
ccessfully disrupt my date with the man you’re convinced I’m going to marry…what am I meant to do now?”

  “Perhaps,” said Mr. Deeley, “you might consider attending the premiere of that film in Piccadilly Circus.”

  “What, A Hard Day’s Night? I haven’t got a ticket.”

  “Neither do we,” Charlie said.

  “What, a pair of guardian angels and you can’t manage a couple of tickets to the hottest film premiere in London?”

  “Our employer dislikes the Beatles,” Mr. Deeley replied humorously. “He prefers the classical music of Mendelssohn, the Hebrides Overture in particular, and the Italian Symphony.”

  Charlie looked at him. “I didn’t know you knew about Mendelssohn.”

  “There is much you don’t know about me, Mrs. Collins. Do I surprise you?”

  “Yes. Constantly.”

  “Do you dislike it?”

  “Not at all. You may continue to surprise me for as long as you wish, Mr. Deeley.” Charlie turned to Jackie. “I think we should go and stand in the crowd outside the theatre and watch the celebrities arrive. We might still manage to see the Beatles.”

  “I think I’d rather be with Giles and Marianne. They’re actually going inside and managing to meet the Beatles.” Jackie picked up her jacket, and her handbag. “Come on then. I’m all dressed up with nowhere else to go. You owe me dinner afterwards, though. Justin was going to take me somewhere very posh and very nice. And I’m starving.”

  • • •

  They surfaced, once more, at Piccadilly Circus, and attempted to climb the steps that led straight up from the underground concourse to the pavement in front of the Pavilion. But the exit was blocked, and through the barricade they could see a massive gathering of people, held back by a line of police.

  “Come on,” Jackie said. “This station’s got more than one way out.”

  She ran around the circular concourse, past the public toilets, to the long passageway that led up into the old original Underground station building on Coventry Street. When they reached the surface, they saw a line of spectators had spilled over onto a slender paved traffic island in the middle of Coventry Street, which was surrounded by a metal fence.

  “Never mind that,” Jackie said. “Follow me.”